Half-Time
by TaekwondoAssKicking
Summary: You know that moment when you feel like repeatedly banging your head against a wall? That's it. On one hand, you have the suicidal, friendless, bullied teen who is failing all his classes. On another, you have the closet musician with a keen mind who happens to be one of the world's best hackers. Now, what to do when an off-grid CIA Agent discovers you? And, is all what it seems?
1. Morning Classes

**Ch1: Morning Classes**

Gilbert stared at the paper that was handed to him by the bespectacled, ever-scowling, forever-grumpy and suspiciously stinky Mr. Edelstein. It was blotched full of angry red marks, covering the paper from head to toe. At the very top right-hand corner, a very nice _29 _encompassed in a red circle glared out at him.

All things considered, not bad. Not bad at all. Specially since it was Geometry. Specially _because _it was geometry.

A cough made him look up. Youthful crimson red met the annoyed hard lines and steel purple eyes of one Mr Edelstein.

"Yeeeees?" Gilbert asked in that annoying tone of his, an arrogant smirk gracing his pale features. Mr. Edelstein's frown deepened, annoyance dancing in his eyes. Annoyance turned into malice. Hmm that did not bode well. Nope. Before Gilbert had the chance of stuffing the test away – preferably between the lined pages of a random notebook – he felt the thin paper slip out of his grasp in one forceful and paper-crinkling motion.

"Class, this is _exactly _what _not_ to do," the teacher announced to the class loudly, holding up Gilbert's multicolored test up for all to see. "Please refrain from messing up a test this bad in the future, as Mr. Beilschmidt here has _somehow _managed to do."

Everyone laughed, their laughter cutting deeply into Gilbert's heart. He heard someone whisper "Seriously? But that was super easy!" and someone else commented "That's cuz he's _stupid._" Even though the only thing Gilbert felt like doing at the moment was to make himself smaller and hide under the desk, he got his bearings and forced his famous happy smirk on his lips.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Grumps," Gilbert quipped at the teacher. The class sniggered, making some of the weight in his heart ease up a bit. Not laughing _at _him, but _with _him now! Mr. Edelstein's eyes narrowed, not liking being called Mr. Grumps, probably, even if the name was pretty... accurate. Actually, a more accurate name would be Mr. Prissy, Gilbert silently mused to himself. Mr. Edelstein tsked regally – regaining lost attention – and made a show of looking over his test, one arm held behind his back. Che, aristocrat much?

"Really, Mr. Beilschmidt?" Mr. Edelstein commented nasally, "I did not know that the concept of square roots was so difficult for you to grasp – or that of addition and subtraction, for that matter."

_Oh yeah? Well I didn't know that the concept of showering was so difficult for you to grasp – or that of soap and deodorant, for that matter. _

Gilbert scowled at the desk, keeping that thought from leaving his mouth with some difficulty, wishing for the bell to ring. _Don't let them see how much this is affecting you, _he reminded himself. _Bell should ring any second now._

"Stupid."

_Bell, time to ring._

"Haha! Serves him right!"

_You can ring now._

"Honestly, he's so annoying – can't we ever get anything done with him in class?"

_Oh Bell, where art thou? And can you spare Gilbert so?_

"He's so pathetic, look at him! He doesn't even care."

_Ooh~ Bell~ Caaaan~ you RIIING~ __by the dawn's early light~_

"Worthless idiot."

_Fuck you, Bell._

"Well, I didn't know that the concept of deodorant was so difficult for _you _to grasp," Gilbert shot at the teacher, feeling a bit riled up. It dawned on him a second later that the words held some venom tone wise, and that he should work on keeping his mouth shut. "But, hey, no one can be as awesome as me~ Kesesese~" Gilbert had no idea why he said that, but it worked in covering his earlier slip up. He doubted anyone noticed, anyways.

"That made no sense, Mr. Beilschmidt." Mr Edelstein's eye twitched, and Gilbert could see a furious light glinting behind them that made even _him _a little wary. "And I do not appreciate smart comebacks, Mr. Beilschmidt, not even the ones that took you five minutes to think up."

_Nope. I just have good self-restraint... most of the time... ish. Crap the Priss looks kind of scary-_

"And for your rude behavior, Mr. Beilschmidt, you and your 'Awesomeness' can march straight to the Principal's Off-"

The bell rang.

Gilbert fished his test from the evil clutches of Mr Prissy-Pants and was out the door with his things before the grumpy 'general math' teacher could finish that sentence.

"GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT!"

Gilbert ran to his next class, which was, thankfully, at the other end of the spectrum.

Of course, contrary to popular belief, Gilbert's life was never that easy.

He entered a hallway, he could see his next class all the way at the other end, but just as he did so he was blocked by none other than Francis Bonnefoy and Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo AKA two of the most popular jocks in Hetaroma High AKA two of his personal tormentors.

Great. Same thing as every day. How awesome.

Please note the sarcasm.

"Fuck off."

"Ohonhonhon~ now that's no way to talk to your betters, _oui?_" Francis leaned his back slightly against the lockers, arms crossed and one foot resting on the never-ending wall of green metal. "We must teach 'im a lesson, don't you think, mon ami?"

"Si, you shouldn't swear in the hallways!" the bubbly Spaniard said happily, but Gilbert could see the satisfaction underneath that carefree smile.

Gilbert scowled at them, but said nothing. Say nothing, do nothing. Say nothing, do nothi-

"Ah, you should be careful with zat scowl, mon cher," Francis smirked at him, "We wouldn't want your face to stay zat way forever, non?"

Antonio laughed. "Not possible, amigo!" he grinned at Gilbert. Gilbert's crimson eyes narrowed. "He's always scowling, so there wouldn't be any improvement!"

_Give me a reason why I shouldn't be scowling, dummkopf._

"Oui, I bet if he showed something else other zan a scowl then the mirror would break."

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek; _say nothing, do nothing!_

"You mean to say that the mirror wouldn't break now?" Antonio looked at the Frenchman in confusion. "Yo pienso que his face has no chance, verdad?"

"Oui," Francis gave a single, solemn nod. "No chance at all. 'Is face gets uglier and uglier every time I see 'im."

Antonio laughed, making Gilbert want to crawl under his bed and just stay there until the Apocalypse.

The second bell rang.

What a beautiful sound.

Gilbert started going to class, but was stopped by a rough hand pulling the hood of his Prussian Blue hoodie back, making him momentarily choke. He was then slammed against the lockers by Francis. The Parisian had his elbow pressed against Gilbert's chest, pinning him down. He looked at it, resolved to make absolutely no eye-contact.

"Where do you think you're going, mon chere?"

Gilbert said nothing. If something came out of his mouth, it wouldn't be pretty. Say nothing, do nothing. No witty retorts. No sucker punching the French student or knocking out the Spanish one. No kicking of the nuts of any kind.

"Class, you know, that place where they take monkeys just like you and try to educate them? I'd rather appreciate it if you let go of me."

Francis' azure blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "We should teach 'im a lesson; Antonio?"

From behind Francis, Antonio popped his knuckles, friendly grin never leaving.

Uh-oh. Now what? Francis punched him in the gut, making Gilbert bend over himself, half slumping. He heard something metal creak open, and was then promptly manhandled by the two inside a small very cramped space in the wall – Gilbert's red hues widened when he realized that he was unceremoniously being stuffed inside a locker. He tried to get out, but Antonio pushed him back inside – Gilbert had none of that, though, so he pushed himself out one more time, but this time, instead of going for freedom like a normal person would, he sucker punched the Spaniard in the mouth, making the tan boy cry out in pain. Gilbert was then shoved from the side by Francis, causing him to yelp and trip back in – and hitting his head on the metallic wall behind him, pain making him close his eyes on impact.

SLAM!

Gilbert opened his eyes. It would have been completely dark if it wasn't for the three horizontal lines of outside light glaring into his eyes, making him squint in discomfort.

"Ohonhon~" came the somewhat muffled laugh. "I 'ope you are comfortable in zere, Gilbert!"

Gilbert growled; it was far from comfortable! His chest couldn't properly expand every time he breathed because of the tight space! He couldn't move! At fucking all! His shoulders were too broad! And then there was the odd sound of air compressed in a tight metallic space zooming in his ears.

"FUCK!" Giilbert yelled angrily, hitting his forehead on the locked door. He squirmed inside the small-spaced goddammed _coffin. _The walls felt as if they were pressing in on him.

He heard laughter. Gilbert felt anger course through his veins, making him all warm around his neck – or was that embarrassment? He did not know. One thing he _did _know, though, was that when he got out of here he was going to-

"You are a fail, mi querido rival," Antonio's happy voice floated in.

"So was your dad's condom," came the instant reply.

KA-BLAM! Gilbert flinched at the loudness, the sound having been amplified in the small space; Antonio had kicked the locker, and was now swearing non-stop in Spanish, Francis trying to calm him down, if the muffled French nonsensical garble was anything to go by.

An angry Antonio was rare and nearly un-heard of. An angry Antonio was a scary Antonio. Huh, maybe being stuck inside this locker wasn't such a bad thing...

Angry Antonio aside, Gilbert felt that he was screwed. He messed up. He messed up _again. _

Gilbert decided then and there that he should probably start finding a new route. It was that or getting sent to the Principal's Office (capital letters) yet again. He's been sent there so many times by now, that the whole staff knew his full name, phone number, and class schedule by heart. Yes, even the interns. He had quite the impressive record... and reputation. In fact, his "delinquent reputation" extended all the way through town, not only the high school.

Too bad no one understood that Gilbert, despite his so called delinquent record, was actually far from being one. Was it really his fault that trouble always seemed to find him one way or another? That he had really really bad timing? That no one liked him despite not knowing him? He tried, he really did sometimes, but was it his fault that on top of having bad luck, he was maybe a tad too prideful? If people stopped ganging up on him so much, then they would probably discover that Gilbert was actually quite mellow deep inside. Deep, deep inside.

But, lately, Gilbert's been trying extra hard not to fight back. Contrary to popular belief, he _really _didn't want to get expelled...

So much for not fighting back.

...

...

...Oh Gott, It smelled like month-old socks in here.


	2. Unfair? Yes Normal? Totally

**Ch 2: Unfair? Yes. Normal? Totally.**

Not for the first time that day, Gilbert found himself landing in The Principal's Office (capital letters) yet again. And by 'first time that day' here, he meant that this was Gilbert's second trip to The Principal's Office (capital letters) since that very morning. Reason for the first trip? He slept in and arrived late to school – an hour late, to be more precise. Reason for the second trip? Well...

"He jumped us! For no good reason!" came Antonio's sobbed explanation, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose. "Francis and I were on our way to class, and he punched me! En la nariz!"

"Oui. If I 'aven't been zere to stop it, mon ami Antonio would 'ave probably need a hôpital now."

The three of them were sitting down, in front of The Principal's Desk (capital letters), the man himself studying the trio with interwined fingers. A bronze plaque on the desk had _Principal Romulus Vargas_ engraved on it, shining in the sunlight.

He was looking at Antonio with sympathy, and at Francis with a prideful glint, as if he was some sort of hero.

"You understand, Monsieur, why I 'ad to force that delinquent into a locker, oui?"

The Principal nodded, smiling at the two teens sitting properly in their seats.

Gilbert was slumping in his, legs stretched out in front of him, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. Hey, his muscles were sore and cramped! And, besides, authority figures all seemed to dislike him on sight, and Principal Vargas was no exception. Why should he show respect when they showed none to him?

"Mr. Beilschmidt, you have one month's worth of after-school detentions starting today," Principal Vargas' accented voice sounded gruff when directed at him.

"WHAT!?" Gilbert stood up, feeling indignation and anger shoot through his body. "That is SO not fair! It was THEM that-"

"MR. BEILSCHMIDT! SIT DOWN!"

Gilbert sat down inmediately, flinching ever so subtly. Principal Vargas turned to the other two in the room.

"Francis, Antonio; you may leave. Beilschmidt, you stay seated!"

Francis and Antonio left, the first giving Gilbert a smirk behind the Principal's back. This irked Gilbert to no end, if only the Principal _turned around-_

"Beilschmidt, I am getting sick and tired of having you come in here every day for fighting, vandalising school property, skipping class, stealing-"

"I did no such thing!" Gilbert protested, feeling insulted. Vargas glared. It was a scary glare.

"Oh? You did not punch Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo in the face?"

"Yes, but-"

"Or Alfred F. Jones, for that matter?"

"Last week, yes, but-"

"And I am pretty sure that it was you who graffitied the cafeteria wall!"

"As awesome as that painting is, I didn't do tha-"

"Not to mention the three students who were sent to the nurse two weeks ago,"

"Hey, they started-"

"Coach Anderson's missing soccer balls was your doing, if I remember correctly,"

"Harmless prank!"

"And don't let me get started on Mr. Edelstein's constant complaints!"

"Well, he was being unawesome, and maybe if you let me explain-"

"I am sick and tired of your shenanigans, Mr. Beilschmidt!" Principal Vargas snapped, cutting Gilbert off. Again. He felt his heart lurch and his stomach drop; why did no one ever let him explain? Believe him? What did he do to deserve this? It was not fair, yet it happened all the fucking time. Gilbert looked at his lap, defeated. Why did he even try?

Why did he even try...

Sometimes, Gilbert felt like everything he did ended in failure. His life was a failure. He was a failure.

Gilbert, at that moment, longed for his precious flute. He longed to touch the metallic cool body, to rest his lips upon the gaping mouth, to gently blow and slide his pale fingers over the correct holes, letting the deep broken melody of his soul out in the open. He thought of the instrument that laid hidden in a black case under the mattress, sandwiched between wooden beams and white cotton. It was there, his flute. Waiting for him, and only him, as he was the only one in the world to know of its existence. Gilbert focused on that happy thought. At least he wasn't a failure at hiding his talents.

"Report to detention right after school; I will know if you don't show up."

Physically, Gilbert scowled at the floor. His fingers itched.

Mentally? Turmoil. The bad part would be that his father will SO hear about this...

"You are dismissed, Mr. Beilschmidt," Principal Vargas' golden eyes penetrated into him, filled with dislike. "And let this be your last visit, Mr. Beilschmidt, as next time punishment will involve you leaving this school and not returning for a long long time, if not ever."

The threat hung thick in the silence.

Great. He finally did it. He was right at the border of being expelled... and by the most carefree and happy-go-lucky Principal in the country, no less.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Mr. Beilschmidt!"

_Oops, did I say that out loud?_

"Yes, Mr. Beilschmidt, yes you did."

..._SO need to work on that mouth of mine..._


	3. Even More Classes and Lunch

**Ch3: Even More Classes and Lunch**

World History was interesting, as always. It was easily Gilbert's favorite class, as he loved to learn new facts about history. One of his favorite pastimes was to read historical fiction, specially the ones involving wars and revolutions, not that anyone knew about it. 'Books' and 'Gilbert Beilschmidt' never went in the same sentence together. Ever. It would cause a panic. Also, he had no friends. Of course no one would know anything about what he liked to do in his spare time . . . which wouldn't exactly be smart, in retrospect.

And the teacher was OK. Sure, Mr. Laurinatis, like the rest, did not like him, but hey, at least the guy did his best to treat him fair. He tolerated him, for the most part. Ish. It was a decent amount of tolerance – even if it was a tense, stiffening silence type of tolerance. The man was a pushover, and his gentle nature made him seem weak (which for some reason pissed Gilbert off) but damn, at least the guy tried.

Gilbert did not feel attacked in class, a far cry from how he always felt.

A ripped piece of notebook paper made its way to Gilbert's desk. Making sure that the teacher wasn't looking his way (Laurinatis had the eyes of a freaking hawk) he opened the crinkled note.

_go dai DeMon_

. . . OK, Gilbert did not feel attacked _for the most part. _The students were a whole different matter.

And dang, that was horrible grammar right there. It was painful to the eyes.

Gilbert entertained the idea of how this person's blasphemous grammar was the true demon, trying his best to ignore how tight his throat had become. . .

Demon. That wretched word...

Dang, he had sand in his eyes! Fuck!

**OoooOoooO**

Economy class was a bore. And annoying. Alfred Fucking Jones kept throwing spitballs at the back of his head. Stupid assigned seats. Also, Gilbert had no freaking idea what the heck he was doing in this class. Graphs? Dafuq? Why does this thingy increase when that other thing did that? Wouldn't it be the opposite? And what was that other line's name? And was it him, or did this nonsense make no sense? At all?

"Good job, Alfred! Highest grade in the class!"

. . . Yeah. It was him.

. . .

. . .

Goddam those spitballs!

Soggy spitballs bounced off the top of his head for the rest of the class. For 39 fucking minutes.

_Say nothing, do nothing..._

**OoooOoooO**

Chemistry passed by without anything eventful happening, other than the fact that someone set their lab table on fire. Gilbert was not blamed for the incident, as he had decided to fall asleep in class while that happened. That, and because he sat at the table furthest away from the crime scene, at the back of the class, with Alice Kirkland doodling boredly beside him acting as a key witness.

Not that Alice Kirkland as a witness held much weight. The British punk also had quite the record herself. Gilbert wouldn't even count her as an acquaintance, as they barely ever spoke, but she seemed the only one in this entire school that could tolerate his presence long enough to sit in silence in front of him during Chemistry Lab Days.

Everyone was partnered in groups of five or six. Theirs was the only group of two.

It was a sad sight, but a nice break for Gilbert altogether. The teacher ignored him and Alice, not even sparing them a glance. They were at the very back, so people couldn't point fingers and laugh at them. The teacher would yell at them if they did so. But only because that would mean that they would be poking fun at the Stupid Freak and at the Punk of Isolation instead of paying attention to the class at hand.

It was a nice break. A nice break that came only once or twice a month, sometimes every two.

Alice Kirkland was the only person in the world who's able to claim to have seen the loud and obnoxious albino be calm and quiet. Likewise, Gilbert held the record of not having a single British swear word thrown at him for a certain period of time.

"Now, class, please turn in your homework along with your lab sheets!" the teacher announced from the forefront of the class.

Gilbert bit his lip. His lab was nonexistent and his homework assignment was more than half-way done, but wasn't sure whether or not he had the right answers.

He decided not to turn it in. The teacher would think that he was stupid, like everyone kept saying. Besides, if he turned homework in, the poor teacher would probably have a heart attack.

He sucked at Chemistry. He liked exploding things and he supposed chemical formulas were OK, but stoichiometry or whatever that crap was called was a complete drag.

**OoooOoooOooo**

French II. How Gilbert got into this class was way beyond him.

He couldn't speak it for the life of him – that damn accent – and don't even let him get started on that blasted _passé composé! _It didn't help that the teacher used to be the Latin teacher. Latin was a dead language, so obviously, they shouldn't be taught the same freaking way. All they did in French was translate translate translate, just like what the Latin students claimed to do in Latin I, II, and III.

Latin was a _dead _language. No one will go around speaking it, like French!

Dead and Living languages apart, he had many reasons to hate this class:

1) He was wired for speaking German

2) Teacher sucked

3) He sucked even more

4) It reminded him of that fucking Frenchman

5) Those accents were the bane of his existence – they went _both _ways, for Gott's sake! Should've taken Spanish. Or some other language that lacked accents.

6) He couldn't pronounce the damned words

And 7) it was right before lunch, and after gym (which he skipped most of the time)

Luuuuunch. When was this thing over again? Gilbert snuck a glance at the clock.

Almost there. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... 1.5... 1... 1.75... Oh, that stupid clo-

The bell rang.

Major reason he was failing the class was because he spent it staring at the clock.

He had the last lunch of the day; of course he wouldn't be paying proper attention!

Not that they learned anything useful with this method of teaching anyways. Gilbert felt too embarrassed to shout out for help in French, because he was too damn well sure that the French or French-Canadian or French-African cop passing by would be too preoccupied either deciphering Gilbert's failed-accented cries for help or laughing his French ass off instead of saving him from the imagined murderer hailing from whatever nationality the imagined cop came from.

For all the cop knew, Gilbert could be screaming for more toilet paper instead of being brutally murdered on the streets of la Rochelle.

He could see it now, at the front page of every newspaper in town;

'Albino Teen Brutally Murdered While Screaming For More Toilet Paper'

**OoooOoooO**

Lunch. Everyone loved lunch.

Everyone except Gilbert, that is.

Every day, Gilbert would get shoved to the very end of the growing lunch line, got whatever mystery meat or maybe some of the this-does-not-look-like-mashed-potatoes mashed potatoes, a normal-looking fruit that may or may not house less than delicious inhabitants, and a small carton of milk that was actually the only thing safe to consume – spoiled milk was easy to spot; it tasted rancid! (It sucked being the very last. You get what no one wants) and after all that, he was then left to make his way to whatever lone table available, trying hard to dodge people set on bumping into him, trying to spill his own lunch all over himself in front of the whole cafeteria. Yeah, it has happened before.

But, yeah, after all that, Gilbert always ended up eating his food (or poking the food with increased weariness) completely alone in his usual corner. (Unless that corner got occupied. Usually by the football team. On purpose. Of which a certain Alfred F. Jones was star captain of).

Gilbert sat down, and proceeded to poke the... paddy? Sausage thing? Flat meatball o' doom? Was that beef? It was covered in flaky black stuff. It looked like _burnt_ beef. Gilbert cut a small piece with his plastic knife and stabbed it with his plastic fork. Bringing it up slowly to his mouth – he found that it smelled like gravy – he gave a small prayer... it didn't smell _that _bad... he ate it.

It tasted like chicken. _Raw_ chicken. With a crunchy layer of charcoal.

Gilbert pushed the lunch tray away from him, looking a little green. He was pretty sure that anything that looked like burnt beef and tasted like raw chicken could be classified as a hazardous substance. And... well, Gilbert thought he got an apple. Who knew that it was actually an orange?

...Yep. Definitely skipping lunch today. Again.

Uh-oh. Bulky athletic figures coming his way ahoy. Gilbert looked around the cafeteria. It was crowded. It was loud. It was a maze of long grey tables. Maybe he could slip through the crowd unnoticed? His eyes zeroed in on Mr. Edelstein's patrolling figure. Gilbert looked at the teacher. Then at the intimidating students. Back at the teacher. What were the chances of Mr. Edelstein letting him leave the cafeteria? Or prancing around said cafeteria in hopes of losing the bullies?

He ignored the small wave of panic building up in him. He felt helpless. Cornered. Gilbert thought of his flute. Must. Not. Panic.

The group of Hulks suddenly changed directions, backing away almost instantly.

_Whaaaa...?_

A muscled arm encompassed in a thick sleeve made its way around his shoulder, trapping him. He froze.

"How about we go for walk, da?"

Gilbert felt like fainting.

He much preferred the not-green Hulks...


	4. Ms H and Hello Again Mr Principal

**A/N: Sorry if this chapter sucks. Also, I don't own Hetalia, nor whatever other references that decide to crash the story. Pretend that this disclaimer is in all of the chapters in _Half-Time_, both past and future. **

**Enjoy, my cute little readers~**

**Ch4: Ms. H and Hello Again Mr. Principal**

Not for the first time in his High School career, Gilbert entered a class grumbling nonsensical German under his breath. If anyone understood German - like perhaps a certain Mr. Edelstein, the poor soul, not his fault that the Austrian had virgin ears – then the sinful words coming out of the albino's mouth would've been cause for concern – if not much scolding and more detentions on top of being sent to the Office. Again.

Let's just say that the words coming out of Gilbert's mouth were practically on par with the Profanity King Lovino Vargas, and leave it at that.

There was a gasp.

But, then again...

"GILBERT ALDRICH BEILSCHMIDT!"

Gilbert groaned. He had English now. He forgot.

Daaaaaaang.

"Hallo Ms. H."

He was met with a furious glare in return, the Hungarian English teacher standing by the blackboard with "The Plot Pyramid" drawn on it in bright orange chalk, said chalk broken clean in half in the angry woman's fists.

Ms. Héderváry knew some German. And boy, did Gilbert feel screwed now . . . for many reasons.

"You are over five minutes late, Gilbert!" the Hungarian screeched. "AND WHY ARE YOU SOAKING WET!?"

"My awesome face decided to go for a swim in the toilet," Gilbert answered back matter-of-factly, crimson red glinting with amusement.

Ms. H had none of it.

"Fine! I don't need to know what shenanigans you were up to _this _time!" Ms. H put the chalk down with such force, that the chalk-holder collapsed. No one in the class batted and eye – they were far too used to teachers going bananas when Gilbert Beilschmidt was involved.

Ironically for Gilbert, he had told her the truth. His face _did _go for a little swim down the pristine white bowl in the men's room – shoved down it, more like it. By none other than the infamous Ivan Braginsky. Or, to be more precise, Ivan Braginsky's henchmen.

The Russian just watched as Gilbert almost drowned a couple of times in the toilet.

Gilbert bit his cheek, trying hard not to laugh;

'Albino Teen Drowns In Toilet'

"And what about this is funny, Gilbert?"

Ms. H had her hands crossed over her bosom, looking less than amused.

Gilbert smirked; everything was funny when taken in stride. And, at least, all he got this time was a humiliating face-dipping in the men's room and not a beating like last time. Gilbert bruised quite easily, despite his more than bold actions and fights in school. His delicate albino skin marked easily, not to mention, burned easily. He was pretty sure that he had quite the bruise on his abdomen from his earlier scuffle with Frenchy and Spanish Boy.

Abdomen. That's good. Easy to cover up.

A long, frustrated sigh. "Just sit down, Gilbert."

Gilbert shrugged, and feeling the weight of many annoyed eyes on him, made his way towards the very last row of desks, at the corner, right next to the window. He sat down with a heavy plop, and looking up, he saw his classmates half-turned, some staring at him with scrunched up noses, others sniggering quietly at him. He saw Lovino Vargas mutter what probably was "Bastard" under his breath, which didn't faze Gilbert one bit, as that was Lovino Vargas for you. The mouthed "Failure" coming from Francis followed by Alfred's nod and smirk, on the other hand, irked him. Antonio was snoring next to Francis, drooling all over his blank notes.

Gilbert made sure Ms. H was turned around before casually giving them all the finger. Much to his amusement, Lovino returned the favor in double.

After everyone's attention was finally off him, his gaze moved almost instinctively out the window. The trees were going through their transition of summer to winter, their plumage holding deep reds, strong browns, and dead greens. Gilbert sighed, propping an elbow on his desk, leaning his cheek on his pale, calloused hand. He let his thoughts wander, which he usually didn't do, because they could get really dark really fast.

He constantly felt under attack throughout the day, by both teachers and students alike. Be it physically, verbally, mentally, or just plain refusing him any help, he was always surrounded by those who wished him harm or did not give a fuck about what happened to him. Gilbert felt a constant fear clinging on stubbornly to his skin, always there, keeping him always on his toes, the feeling that anyone could gank him on his way to school or being ambushed in the hallways having a permanent housing within him.

It wasn't a very pleasant feeling to have stuck to you 85% of the day.

The teachers could care less about him. He wasn't smart, and was failing pretty much everything, even gym, which is thought to be nearly impossible to fail. He was loud and obnoxious in class, always ready to talk back, always with a smart comeback. He was a failure in both class and in life. He had no friends to support him or keep him company. No one liked him, or even took the time to actually get to know him before turning against him.

He was being brutally bullied every day, right under the teachers' noses . . . but Gilbert supposed that it wasn't really their fault.

Gilbert was a very good actor. He was also a very good liar. Not that he lied a lot, per say. Gilbert was big on doing what he did just now: 'My face took a swim in the toilet' was pretty much the truth. All he had to do was slap the word 'awesome' in the sentence, tweak the wording a tad, and use the correct tone of voice, and voilà, a truth within the lie that is actually the truth!

The irony of the situations supplied Gilbert with the daily amusement that he needed to get through the day. Unless things got too overwhelming for him, then he usually skipped. Cut things short. Go home early. Did teachers notice? Heck yeah. They liked to bitch about every single thing he did wrong, so it wasn't so surprising. They probably loved it when he disappeared from their class, one less annoyance to endure, one more thing to bitch about the following week.

Really, everyone thought that Gilbert was a loud, attention-seeking, arrogant, egoistic, trouble-making delinquent with no future. Maybe if they cared to look harder, look at him, really look, not just at that mask, but at _him, _then maybe they would see the quiet, modest, hurting teenager with self-esteem issues that he really was. If people stopped calling him names or verbally attacking him, maybe they'd see that he did not bite unless provoked.

But, Gilbert supposed, maybe this negative attention from the teachers wasn't so bad. Better than being ignored. Like in Chemistry. Seriously, the teacher even talked over him when he dared ask a question – or, at least, part of it, before chickening out. Gilbert wasn't one to ask for any type of help. Call it pride, or maybe his trust was broken one too many times, but asking for help was so, so, very, _very _difficult for him to do. It just wasn't in his nature, he guessed. He was a loner at heart.

Maybe he should go talk to the guidance counselor.

Oh, wait, the school was on a budget and students were assigned to certain guidance counselors in alphabetical order. There were two guidance counselors, one of which was also a teacher.

Guess who was in charge of letters A to L?

Mr. Roddy Prissy-Pants McGrumpy Edelstein of Stick-Up-His-Arsus Land.

Yeah. Ain't happening. No ficken way.

. . . And that's what he meant by 'dark thoughts.' Gilbert tried very hard to stay on the optimistic side of things, which was actually easier said than done. He tried, but by now though, he gave up completely on outside appearances. Really, Gilbert's closest thing to a smile was a smirk, and that was pretty much what he showed everyone. Well, that and the scowl. And pouting. But the smirk was his preferred facial expression. Even if it _did _make him seem cocky.

"Gilbert!" Ms. H's exclamation made him snap out of his thoughts.

"Hmm~?" he hummed, averting his gaze from the window.

"What are the five structures of Plot?"

_Oh mein Gott. We did this last year. And the year before that. And the one before that._

"Plot has a structure?" Gilbert asked in a deadpan voice.

_Exposition. Raising Action. Climax. Falling Action. Resolution. Duh._

"Yes, Gilbert, it has." Que to glare. She turned to the rest of the class. "Anyone?"

Someone – a guy whose name he did not care to remember – raised his hand. "Exposition, Raising Action, Climax, Falling Action, and Resolution, Ms. H." He stated, without being called.

Ms. H nodded at him with a small smile. "Yes, Tom, very good. Unlike _someone-_"

Gilbert yawned, cutting her off.

"PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE!"

Yeah. Gilbert had his reasons for hating English. And the sad part? It had nothing to do with the subject. Gilbert actually enjoyed writing as a hobby. And books were pretty awesome. He even kept a dia- err, _journal _at home.

"But I already went there today!" Gilbert whined.

"WHAT!?"

This time, the whole class flinched. Gott damn, that lady could screech like a banshee!

"GILBEEEERT!"

_...I_ **really**_ should work on keeping my mouth shut, shouldn't I...?_

**OoooOoooOoooO**

"And what, pray tell, are you doing in here _this _time, Beilschmidt?"

"I yawned in class," came the deadpanned reply.

"Quit messing around, Beilschmidt." Principal Vargas said impatiently, "Now, tell me, _why _have you been sent here _for the third time today._"

Gilbert shrugged in his chair. "Yawned in class. Simple as that," he repeated to the man in front of him. Principal Vargas was massaging his temples, curl bobbing up and down.

"I don't appreciate lying, Mr. Beilschmidt. Your reason is not acceptable."

Gilbert stared.

"I . . . really did yawn in class, Mr. Vargas." _And called Ms. H a banshee but you don't need to know that._

Principal Vargas shot him a glare. Gilbert rolled his eyes.

"Beilschmidt, do you remember exactly what I told you the last time you where in here, which may I add_, wasn't that long ago?_"

"Uh, that cafeteria food sucked?"

Gilbert knew _exactly _what Principal Vargas was talking about, but didn't particularly want to touch that future-crushing topic.

"No. I told you that the next time you showed that delinquent face of yours around here, you'd be—"

"Yeah yeah," Gilbert cut off, not liking the way that the Principal was talking to him. Geez, he wasn't retarded or anything . . . right? "I get it. You want to ship me off on a one-way trip to Expulsionlandia." Then, in a monotone commercial guy voice, he added "Shipping and handling not included."

Principal Vargas did not look amused. Gilbert sighed, knowing that if he didn't do _something, _then he REALLY was going to get expelled. What exactly, he didn't know. Principal Vargas, like many, hated his guts.

"Please tell me you aren't expelling me for yawning in class. That's so not awesome."

OK, maybe that wasn't the best approach.

A sigh. More temple massaging. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Let me go?"

"No." Glare.

Gilbert shrugged again. It was worth a shot.

"_But,_"

Gilbert didn't like the sound of that 'but' very much.

"One more slip, Beilschmidt, one more addition to your one-mile-long record . . ."

Principal Vargas let that hang in the air.

Yeah. Gilbert didn't need to hear the ending to that. Nope.

"I will expel you and make sure you don't EVER get into another school, do you understand?"

Gilbert felt terrible. The heavy blanket of depression that always followed him around but yet was always tucked away, hidden, was starting to smother him, trying to cut his air supply. Gilbert liked to pretend that there was always something out there to look out for, to reach out, to help him fight _and live._ Despite his scores, Gilbert liked to think that maybe, only maybe, someone would recognize his, ah, _skills_ and provide him with the higher education that made everyone respected and successful. But, if Gilbert couldn't even finish High School . . .

His resolve was disintegrating, and fast.

Maybe all this suffering wasn't worth it.

No. _No, _Gilbert admonished himself. _I will not go down like this. There's . . . there's still hope left. _

_Hope. _The word was beginning to sound rather empty . . .

"I will call your father, Beilschmidt. Let _him _deal with you."

Gilbert bit his cheek. Yeah, he was so gonna get it. Was it him, or did it suddenly get hot in here?

Principal Vargas' eyes narrowed, his tone icy. "I hope that I have made myself clear enough this time that your unruly behavior will no longer be tolerated."

Yes, yes he has.

"But, as I am well acquainted with your father, I am letting you go this time . . . the _last time _Mr. Beilschmidt, do you hear? This is a favor granted to _your father. _Next time. . ."

He didn't need to hear the end to that sentence. There wouldn't be a next time.

Next time he marched into this office, he'd get expelled. The look on the Principal's face said as much as that. This was the REAL last warning. Oh, how he dreaded going home now, more than ever.

He was dead.


	5. Vater vs the Door

**Ch 5: Vater vs the Door**

Gilbert had never really gotten along with his father.

That, was a fact. They just . . . never saw eye to eye on anything. Every time they happened to be in the same room, it always ended with a loud yelling match. Gilbert knew very well that he was a disappointment to the family, something to be ashamed of. He was nowhere near his perfect, gifted and normal-looking little brother. Ever since he was a child, the man always had a cold air around him, always keeping Gilbert at an arm's length. It had hurt, still does, and Gilbert couldn't help feeling like a failure after all of his best efforts to please the man. They had the tendency of crashing and burning rather spectacularly. It got to the point where he just stopped trying (because really, why bother?) but that just seemed to worsen their relationship even further, if that was even possible.

Which now brings us to right here, right now; Gilbert saw, to his horror, that his father's car was neatly parked up front . . . Aldrich Beilschmidt was, for once, home early. Even after serving detention for an hour, he still should've had about twenty minutes to spare, damn the world.

Which was why Gilbert sneakily snuck out back, on his knees, crawling in the bushes along the house's perimeter. He was currently located right underneath the bathroom window, one of his elbows nearly scraping the wall. Yes, all he had to do was break into his own home by going up the wall, and through the stupid window.

There was only _one itty bitty problem._

It was also on the second floor.

And Gilbert was crouched low way down below. It looked _waaaaaay _too high from his position on the prickly ground. He didn't even know if the window would be unlocked.

He's never done this before. . . well, OK, that was a lie—he's done it before—but usually coming down, not going freaking _up. _The first time going down it had felt like he was falling to his death—heck, he twisted his ankle—but eventually got the hang of it after a few times. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to jump out of a window. His father was waiting for him in his room for some unknown reason (another lie—Gilbert may have _accidentally_ thrown something against the wall—that had been a horrid day) so his usual escape route involving the tree out his bedroom window had been blocked.

So, the question here is, was it worth it?

Gilbert didn't know. It looked pretty damn high from where he was hiding. Maybe staying in the bushes would be good enough. No one would think of looking for him here.

But he couldn't stay there forever. Gilbert slowly emerged from the bushes. His red eyes shifted from side to side; clear. OK. He got up, put a hand over one of the lower floor windows, prepared himself mentally, took a deep breath, and got ready to leap up—

"Bruder? What are you doing?"

Gilbert let out a very manly scream.

**OoooOoooO**

The albino teen sat on the living room couch, looking every bit as disgruntled as he felt—he also had leaves poking out of his hair, and some stuck to his clothes. He used a bag of frozen peas to nurse a bruise on his forehead. He glared angrily at the floor, mumbling something about "walls that shouldn't be there" and of "ninja-like little brothers."

Ludwig Beilschmidt, who was also sitting on the couch, sighed at his elder brother's incoherent grumbling. The fourteen-year-old shook his head; his brother had way too much energy to spare.

Someone cleared their throat; Ludwig turned to the man sitting on the couch opposite the brothers, and Gilbert's face remained stubbornly semi-covered by the peas. This man, of course, was Aldrich Beilschmidt—a person Gilbert didn't feel like being in the same room with. You didn't have to be a prophet or a seer to predict how this was going to end. A feeling of trepidation invaded Gilbert, and he prayed that his vater had yet to receive the call from Principal Var—

"Your principal called today."

Nevermind. Direct and to the point, curt as always. Unless it concerned a certain Principal Romulus Vargas, that is. It was almost amusing to see how the old German avoided even mentioning the old Italian's _name. _

"_Did _he now." Gilbert could also be curt, direct and to the point. Only difference was that Aldrich was more of a deadpan man and Gilbert geared off towards a more . . . sarcastic note. Gilbert shifted the bag of frozen peas a bit, and wearily peaked at the older man from underneath the weight. Cold, stoic, with a small indent over the eyebrows. Arms crossed. Icy blue eyes narrowed and hard. Body language: stiff as a board.

Ohhh boy.

His vater's eyebrow twitched; Gilbert braced himself.

"_Expelled _Gilbert?" Oh hold on now— "Haven't you learned _anything _by now, boy? Are you really stupid enough to get yourself _expelled _in your _senior year of school?_" his German accent thickened by the word.

Gilbert scowled. "Hey!" he started, indignant. "Look, I didn't—"

"DON'T INTERRUPT!" he barked, standing up, causing Gilbert to jump—the bag of peas slipped from his frozen fingers, and landed somewhere on the ground. Aldrich didn't usually raise his voice; he was more of a staring stoically in a way that makes your skin crawl type of guy. Gilbert had been about to open his mouth, but thought better of it—he decided for once to just shut up. It usually took more than _that_ (and by _that _he meant a few sentences, not that Gilbert even got in a few words edgewise this time, so Aldrich was _livid _even before getting home) to get his father this riled up. "It's always the same story! You never do as told. NEVER. You don't behave, don't do what's expected of you, and you always _have_ to have the last word!" Gilbert wanted to say something (what exactly, he didn't know) but was too wary to do so. Instead, he just stared angrily at the ground, wondering why they were doing this _again. _Gilbert already heard this before, multiple times. He wanted to scoff, to roll his eyes, groan. It was like . . .it would be like as if a teacher decided to preach how to add and subtract to a high school class. It would be futile and zoning-out worthy. No one would actually be paying attention, but at the same time, still hearing the words—words and instructions of things they already knew. That he already knew. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't true. He didn't argue for the sake of arguing. He didn't. He usually had a reason. He _always _had a reason. His vater didn't _understand_. He didn't understand _him._

As their vater ranted in a way he usually never did (the man just _exploded _mein Gott) Ludwig sat silently on the couch, out of sight, marveling at how similar both Germans looked when angry. They both wore matching scowls and the same facial expression. Ludwig knew that this wasn't going to end well. But, then again, when did it ever? The fourteen-year-old felt like sighing. If only his bruder did what he was _told._

Gilbert's temper was sizzling under his skin; everything was so unfair! He never got to explain his side of things! And even if he _did _get to explain, chances of being understood were slim to _negative nothing. _Hopelessness rose within him—nothing was in his control. Nothing. The combination of everything wrong in his life culminated to the feeling of despair in his chest, the itchiness of his throat. He could feel tears forming underneath his eyes. He stayed very still, unblinking. He refused to cry. All he had left was his—his—his what? _Pride? _Gilbert was not only being yelled at in front of his little brother, but the whole neighborhood as well. Vater could have a loud, booming voice when he wanted. And Gilbert could be _louder _still.

The faint sound of keys unlocking the door greeted them. Aldrich paused his sermon.

"Hellooo?" came a tentative female voice. Oh great. Just what he needed.

Aldrich cleared his throat, ice cold eyes never leaving Gilbert's rebellious form. "In here, darling."

Ms. H. Came into the room, a reddish hand-purse in one hand, coat hanging from the same arm.

The green-eyed, brown-haired teacher saw them in the living room, hesitated, and stepped up to Aldrich. She kissed him on the cheek.

"Had a good day, sweetie?"

Ladies and gents, here you have the true reason of why Gilbert will never get along with Ms. Héderváry; she and his vater were _dating, _despite the large . . . age difference.

Aldrich grunted.

. . . and the different personalities. Seriously.

Now, while Gilbert wasn't a big fan of those two, he _did _appreciate the distraction.

Before anyone noticed, Gilbert slipped away from the living room. He was _not _getting yelled at in front of his English teacher! And much less by those two at the same time! No ficken way.

"GILBERT!"

Aforementioned person _ran _upstairs, across the hallway, into his room, and slammed the door shut. He heard his vater angrily make his way up the stairs (there was stomping involved—and they called Gilbert childish?) and voices of the male and female variety—probably Ms. H's helpful comments on how to "control" him—but Gilbert was having none of it today—as many days.

He grasped his blue swivelly chair, swung it in one half-circle motion from front to back, and shoved it under the doorknob—leaning, wheels still rolling and at an angle.

The knob attempted to turn. It failed.

"GILBERT _ALDRICH_ BEILSCHMIDT! Open the door!" Angry pounding. Gilbert stared at it, eyebrows raised.

"Uh. No." Common sense, my liebelings. Common sense.

"GILBERT! That's no way to talk to your father!" screeched Ms. Hédeváry. Whatever.

Angry, hushed voices came from the other side. Huh. They must be talking. Gilbert did not care. "HE CALLED YOU A _WHAT?" _Gilbert cringed. He reaaaaaaally hated the relationship between Ms. H. And his vater. She told him _everything_ that Gilbert did during the day—none of which was good. Because Gilbert never did anything good. More angry, hushed conversation. The albino teen felt very tired. So much energy was put in every day. It was exhausting.

Gilbert sat down on his white covered bed, right on top of the giant, black, regal-looking Prussian eagle. He did not take his eyes off that door.

He knew from experience that Ms. H. was quite capable of kicking doors down. Admittedly—it was pretty cool. But not so much when there was a pissed Hungarian followed by an equally pissed German on the other side.

Mein Gott, he needed a _break_.

His blood-red eyes trailed off to the window . . . Hmmm . . .

**A/N: Hi.**


	6. Fake ID's

**Ch6. Fake ID's**

In a split second moment decision, Gilbert decided to leave his flute.

After that had been decided, the albino teen started moving in a flurry. It took Gilbert less than thirty seconds to grab his satchel, shove his beloved laptop in it, get on his knees, take out a box, open said box, find the right (fat, lumpy) folder, force said folder to fit into the satchel, force said satchel shut, and open up his rickety window without giving himself away to the still conversing adults. It took another seven to stick one leg out, sit, shuffle his other leg through, let his feet dangle, duck his head and the rest of his body out from the inside, and place the palms of his hands down beside his thighs.

He put all of his weight on his hands, lifted himself up, brought his legs up to his chest, tucked his feet under his body, and positioned himself at an angle—dangerously over the edge. He braced himself, hands clutching the edge, biceps straining from his own weight.

The tree trunk was a little way ahead—he aimed at it, a bit above the roots of a sturdy tree branch.

Gilbert kicked off, using his legs as springs—a moment of weightlessness, of his stomach doing a weird flippy thing—and a blink later his arms hugged the trunk, his chest hitting it with force—friction met the heels and toes of his sneakers, and Gilbert's body weighted down due to gravity. His right armpit encountered the nook where the tree branch extended from, successfully stopping him from plunging straight to the ground and possibly his death.

Well, not death, but maybe a few broken bones, which didn't sound appealing at all. At least in death there wouldn't be any pain.

Gilbert brought himself up and on the branch, still close to the trunk. He brought one leg up, grabbed a branch overhead, and pulled, bringing himself up and in a standing position, bringing his remaining limb with him. He shuffled to the side, stepped off to another branch, and climbed another branch up, using his arms to fling himself over it, onto a sitting position, legs on either side much like horse. From a man-made hiding place, he procured out a rope and a pair of black fingerless gloves. He put the gloves on and then tied the rope to the branch. He made sure that the knot would hold, and once he deemed it sturdy enough, he pushed the rest over the edge. It limply dangled from the tree branch, swaying.

Gilbert simply slid down, feet on the trunk, jumping and sliding, jumping and sliding, hands protected from rope-burn thanks to his gloves. Close to the end, he let go of the rope and hopped. And with the style of an action ninja-turned-spy, his feet hit the mushy ground, sneakers sinking lightly in the mud.

He readjusted the satchel over his shoulder, and simply set off as quietly as possible. The neighbor's dog was at the vet, so at least Gilbert needn't worry getting his limbs mawed off by fiendish fangs. Gilbert loved dogs, but the relationship between he and the ball of barking evil was one of ultimate hate. The fat chihuahua may be cute and all, but the albino was certain that the rat-sized thing was the devil reincarnated.

He was _not _a fan of Mr. Muffin.

Gilbert prowled the streets aimlessly, thoughts floating about in his head. People milled here and there, some pausing to stare at his uncanny looks and others barely sparing him a glance, finding their cell phones much more interesting than their surroundings. It wasn't cold yet, but the incoming chill was made known by touching every bit of bare skin. There was at most half an hour left of sunlight, the sun low enough to give the surrounding lighting that subtle pre-dusk tinge of dull brightness.

Gilbert readjusted the satchel over his shoulder again, quickening his pace. His hand tightened over the strap. His mind wandered over to the bright yellow folder that sat reclining against his laptop, not heavy enough to make it a burden but not light enough to not notice. Ah yes. That was important. He should probably deliver it ASAP. Gilbert slid his phone out from his pants' pocket and scrolled down his contacts, all of which were under coded names: "The Hungarian Horntail," "Giant Stick-in-the-Mud," and "Cute Stiffy Bro" being some of them. He stopped at '#344600-STU/U' and touched it with his thumb. He brought the phone up to his ear. It dialed. Gilbert lightly tapped the surface of his pone with his fingers, waiting.

"'_ello?" _answered a male with a thick Irish accent.

Gilbert cleared his throat importantly.

"Number 344600 . . . ?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"_Aye._ _Yer 'av dem?"_

"Yessir~" Gilbert responded chirpily. "Is now a good time?" It was near sunset, _of course _it was a good time. No classes (for the most part) and all party.

"_Aye. __An' jist in time, too! Brin' dem as soon as possable, sprog." _

Aaaaaaand he hung up. Gilbert raised an eyebrow at that. He wasn't told where exactly to go. Gilbert pocketed the phone and gave a mental shrug. With a humm, he made a beeline towards the park, which he so happened to be near of. He strolled in through the rusting gates, spotted a nice-looking bench, and went for it. He sat down and took out his laptop—aka The Device. The Device was . . . well, it was awesome in its purest form. It was black, and had a sticker of a cute chick stuck on the cover. Gilbert was a sucker for cute things, and he especially had a weakness for cute little fluffy chicks with little beaks and happy chirps. He opened the screen, and was met with the Login. He typed in his username (TheAwesomeKnight) and his twenty-three lettered password, which was composed of nonsensical babble, substituted symbols, and a heckload of numbers. His fingers fluttered across the keyboard at the speed of light, gaze lazily intent on the screen—he trained himself to be speedy and efficient.

He was asked one question. He answered it. His screen saver came up. It was the Slytherin and Hufflepuff crests from Harry Potter.

Yeah, yeah—he was one big dork, he would admit to that. Whatever.

He took out a cable and plugged his phone into the laptop. He dug into his phone's hardrive and found the call that he just made. His fingers dashed all over the keyboard and much clicking could be heard as Gilbert quickly finished that one program that he started in Geometry because he didn't feel like listening to Mr. Edelstein's prissy prattling. Its original intent was to hack the Pentagon, but he figured that he could modify it a little. He changed one or two lines of code and now instead of bypassing whatever firewalls and the gazillion security systems that the U.S. government had in place, he now could trace any call ever made or received on AT&amp;T's cell server.

Gilbert had quite the history with hacking. It just . . . came naturally to him. By age six he had already found out that the Illuminati existed by accidentally overhearing a phone call between two members, one of which may or may not have been the leader of said group. He had originally wanted to spy on his father and his first grade teacher during a conference regarding his 'unruly behavior,' but instead his amateur skills directed him to the opposite end of the globe. Gilbert was still disappointed at that. To think that at one point in time he couldn't even do something as _simple_ as overhearing a recorded parent-teacher meeting . . . it was disgraceful. And he _still_ got his gameboy taken away from him! The nerve.

Ah, there it was. A number was imputed, and the 'enter' key was pressed.

Loading . . .

Pa-PLING!

Awesome.

_Click-plock-click-click-clack clack click-click-plock-click-clack-tap-tack_

He opened another window and imputed another code here and a code there, closed it, and opened a window that showed planet Earth. Tacka-tack-click-clack tap tap click-click-clack.

He hit 'enter' and the rest was history.

* * *

One bus ride to the city and one subway trip later, Gilbert finally arrived at the correct coordinates.

A group of guys passed by, horsing around. Two girls giggled, talking about something. A girl was walking and applying makeup at the same time. A guy in a hoodie lingered around. People milled out and about, mostly entering a red-bricked building from which loud music emanated from. Bright lamp light poured into the dark street through the glass windows and semi-transparent doors.

Ah, college. Pity Gilbert would never get to attend one.

Surprisingly enough, that thought actually bothered him . . . a lot. More than it should've. He felt a sense of loss, of budding grief.

With a sigh, he entered the forbidden place, pushing through one of the double doors. The albino teen winced at the sudden change in lighting—he blinked owlishly.

The scene morphed into a stereotypical college setting. A group of college students playing pool, two others deeply immersed in a game of ping pong, a mishmash of bodies dancing to loud music—there was even a group sitting on these round-like booths with a round table in the middle, playing some sort of card game. Others were just talking, hanging out.

It was an on-campus lounge area.

Gilbert craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse—ah, there we go. There were some people out back, playing darts. Still, that didn't tell him anything. He looked around, opening his ears in hopes of hearing a familiar Irish accent. Nope. Gilbert cursed in German under his breath. He didn't know what he looked like.

Well, there was only one thing he could do.

Gilbert strutted up to where the loud music was coming from—he turned it off.

Everyone instantly froze, confused faces looking up to stare at him. Gilbert smirked; he knew what a sight he was, what with he being way younger than them all. And, if you included the albino factor . . .

"Greetings, everyone! I was just looking for someone—he won a prize, you see! Would the person with the ticket number 344600 please come see me? Thanks. Number 344600, come up here! 344600, I repeat. Number 344600. I know you're Irish or something. Number 344600!"

A somewhat short, stocky young man with freckled cheeks and wild ginger hair stumbled out of the crowd, looking what the Brits would describe as being 'gobsmacked.' He looked both surprised and confused, large eyebrows drawn over grassy green eyes.

"Waaat de 'eck?"

Bingo.

Gilbert smiled. "What's three times three?" He commented casually.

The man blinked. Apprehension dawned on his face. "An apple tree."

"Aaaaaand we have a winner!" he exclaimed in a commentator's voice, approaching the island dweller. He draped an arm around the man's shoulders, acting as if they were good friends. "How about we discuss your prize in, hmm, how about that empty room?"

So shocked was the man, he let Gilbert stir him away from the crowd and into this other room—it looked like a kitchen.

Thank Gott.

As is suddenly burned, Gilbert retracted his and quickly dug through his satchel. He pulled out the folder, shoving it onto the man.

"This is my last 'job.' So, whatever you do, don't go around telling people that I do these sort of things!" Because that's how it happened—this guy suddenly contacted Gilbert out of the blue, demanding him to 'do him a favor,' just like his friend. This thug practically forced Gilbert to forge him a fake ID, and then his friends got him to do it, and these people's friends found out which ended up all the way to this guy.

Gilbert was sick of it. He wanted it to end.

The ginger opened the folder, and took out one of the fake ID's. There were a total of five. He and his friends were probably going to use them to buy alcohol, like the rest of the underaged folks that 'asked' him for 'favors.'

Che.

The Irish man nodded, still looking somewhat aghast.

"Yer sure 'av balls, paddy. Canny believe yer did dat."

Gilbert simply shrugged. Out in the lounge, the music was back on full blast.

A wave of depression encompassed his very being, and, abruptly, Gilbert felt as if he was too tired to combat it with his usual forced optimism.

"You got beer?" Gilbert suddenly piped up. The man blinked.

"Aye, we do."

"Awesome. I'll take that as payment, then."

The man stared at him. A grin made its way across his lips, green eyes filling up with glee, probably because he was getting the deal of the century. Fake ID's weren't exactly cheap.

"In de fridge, paddy!"

Gilbert cocked an eyebrow; keeping beer on campus-owned, private land? Not very smart. But, hey, who was he to judge? He had nothing to lose.

Gilbert bounded over to the fridge, opened it—the light blinded him for a second—and lookit here, a nice little six-pack, cans shining and glinting.

He took the whole thing.

"A bit much, don't yer tink?"

Gilbert glared at him.

"Ok, ok," the Irish man retracted, putting his hands up as a sign of peace.

Gilbert strutted out of the building, six-pack under his arm.

**A/N: Next chapter, shit REALLY goes down.**

**Thoughts?**

**Analysis?**

**Critiques?**


	7. Thwarted

**Ch7. Thwarted**

Drunken singing could be heard emanating from an alley, making its way down the road.

"Thre'ee wittle llamas r' dronin' ovr th' rivr, three wittle llamaaaaas r' dronin' in the rivahh~!"

Gilbert tripped and face-planted.

He laughed, finding every single bit of life to be extremely hilarious. He got up without issue—though he did stumble a bit, not all that stable—and took another long drink from the 20 oz green can of beer.

"Three wittle—little—llamas r' dronin' ovr the river, three wittle llamas r' gonna git delivr'd~!"

Another gulp, honey-colored fizz dribbling down his chin. He burped. Gilbert laughed some more. He brought the can back to his lips, this time emptying the container from its burning liquid.

He caught the drops from his chin with the back of his hand and gave a satisfied sigh that sounded more akin to a snake going "aaahh~"

The can was promptly disposed of. He made a motion to grab another can—except, he wasn't carrying anything. He paused, contemplating life. The albino laughed somewhat drunkenly, not drunk enough to be drunk-as-a-skunk drunk but tipsy enough to be very far away from sober.

"Kesese~! Six beers 'n under half n' hour! Ne-new per-so-nal levl!" he cheered, walking in a definitely-not-straight line. It was dark, and Gilbert made it his mission to go from lamplight to lamplight in a weird connect-the-dots game he abruptly made up around his third beer.

Gilbert had a high alcohol tolerance—unfortunately (or fortunately) the human body's metabolism rate for alcohol was one hour, half in the albino's case.

Except said albino just downed _six 20 oz _cans of beer in that amount of time.

Gilbert was somewhere between tipsy and drunk, his body having not yet been slammed by the binge drinking truck. And, when it did, he will get hit _hard._

_I wonder if drinking that much is dangerous, _his somewhat clear mind suddenly supplied. It was starting to become hazy, going from odd slowliness to clarity back and forth.

A pause.

Gilbert found himself not caring if it was. He really just . . . didn't care. At all. That in itself should have been alarming to the teen, but, odd enough, he also felt as if he already knew but just never actually thought about it. He didn't care anymore.

"Tiredd . . ." he mumbled, slowly beelining towards the next upside-down cone of orange light.

_Maybe the alcohol will knock me out, _he wondered almost casually. Gilbert found himself wishing for it to happen, his physical and mental weariness grating on his bones and soul.

_Or better yet, pull me into an eternal slumber . . . _

Gilbert froze in his step. Such treacherous thoughts had never assaulted his mind . . . but, then again, his mind's self-censuring methods had been stripped away by copious amounts of alcohol. He was always forcing himself to be optimistic to the point where he _never even allows _himself to think those kinds of things.

"A deep, deep, etrnl slumbr . . . " he half slurred, half mumbled. The alcohol's effects were getting ready to pounce.

_No'one would ca-care if I died right here, right—right now._

"No one cars und I dn't ca-re. Whut's da pnt?" Gilbert was starting to get dizzy.

_I should end my mysry. _

Gilbert turned around—very sloppily, something that should be noted—and started to walk in the opposite direction.

_Public bathroom. _

He was thinking of allowing himself to pass out in front of the toilet—maybe then he'd drown. A pathetic death for a pathetic person.

_Let's-it make the girl's bathroom, then. _

He was never in one, so that should count as seeing the world.

Gilbert dragged his feet, shoulders slumped, going in the perceived direction of the nearest public restroom that he knew of.

_I could also le-leap off a build'ng. Any buildn'—not my house. Lud. Not Lud. Nvr Lud'wig._

_Or I co-uld Stab myslf with a pencil, right in da hrt._

_Or I cld covr' my-meself in bratwurst und git eatn' by Mr. Muffin'._

_Eatin' Alice's Faml'y Econo'ics food wo-would do da trick. Tellin' her tha wld too._

Gilbert shook his head. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake.

_Thr meds in th bathrm cabn't at home. Deep slp. Nvr wake up._

"Less effort . . ."

The public restroom that Gilbert was thinking of was a few blocks away.

He tripped, stumbled, tried to regain his balance but failed—crumbling to the ground. The world was turning into a blur, his stomach disagreeing with him on a whole new level. His breathing became labored, his skin clammy with cold sweat.

_No. Mst fall sleep with head in toilet._

He groaned; he didn't feel like getting up—but he had to. Gilbert peeled open an eye. The public restroom was just in front of him.

"Must've been clsr th-tha expct'd."

With great effort and much grunting, Gilbert got back on his feet and hobbled to the women's section . . . his pale hand was on the knob . . . he was turning the knob . . .

The sound of a trash can being bashed by something very heavy resonated in the night.

Startled, Gilbert turned around—the sudden movement made him trip over himself and fall once again with a thud.

Gun shots, small holes appearing where he used to be mere seconds ago.

_The fuck? _His slow mind shot. He blinked—his brain started moving faster, thoughts pushing through the molasses, creating a newly-carved path that allowed for other thoughts to pass through at a much faster rate. His mind was whirling.

Something—someone grabbed his sleeve and pushed him up. He stood unbalanced, wobbly.

"Vat are you doing, you idiot? Get out of here!" exclaimed a male voice with a peculiar German accent. Gilbert had trouble focusing, trouble seeing. He was unceremoniously pushed to the side, a nudge to start running. Instead, the teen fell to his knees, something buzzing in his ears. The unknown voice cursed.

More gunshots. They sounded far away. The world was one, big, giant blur. It was worse than a Van Gogh, hazier than a Monet.

The voice cursed some more and something hard and metal fell against the side of his head.

A jolt of pain.

Gilbert blacked out.


End file.
